Night at the Eolian
by FalliciousPuns
Summary: After Kvothe returns to Imre and the University, he finally finds the time to play at the Eolian.
When I returned to the University, life was back to normal. Or at least, I slipped into a routine. I did virtually the same things every day, and therefore few new things are to be said about my day to day life. However, one event strikes me as significant.

The first time I performed at the Eolian after I returned was...indescribable. It was magical, but not unfamiliar. It was wonderful but it was painful. I doubt a normal person would understand. Elodin would need no further explanation, but since there is no one else like him, I will do my best

As I made my way across the river to Imre, I noticed the night. Normally I don't: I'd lived too long in Tarbean and under Fae twilight to pay too much attention to regular nights.

I noticed it because was the velvet night that brushes your skin and keeps you warm when you're drunk with friends, only this time I was neither drunk, nor with Wil or Sim. I am ashamed to admit that once I realized this, I ignored it, dismissing what it meant.

I leaned over the edge of the bridge and spat.

The doors of the Eolian welcomed me. I smiled at Deoch, flashing my pipes.

"I see you've brought your lute this time," he said.

I grinned. "My lute and my playing fingers," I agreed. The previous times I'd been to Imre, I'd merely passed through to buy supplies and hopefully catch a glimpse of Denna. This was my second time actually entering the Eolian since I'd returned to the University. I rested my hand on the case and walked inside.

There is a wonderful thing about bars and restaurants. When you enter, there always seems to be a breeze as you close the door, which I find attractive in a dramatic sort of way.

My Shaed fluttered about me and my hair blew as if stroked by gentle lovers' hands. To anyone watching, I would have cut a heroic silhouette.

No one was looking.

Of course they wouldn't be looking, they were looking at the performer who was plucking away at a harp.

I made my way to Stanchion, who sat at the end of the bar.

"Kvothe," he spread his arms, "I hope you're playing tonight."

"Obviously," I grinned tapping my lute case, "why do you ask?"

Stanchion's expression became strained and he pulled at his beard. "Only have three pipes this evening, and they've all been played to death already. We did have four performers, but one of them's got himself drunk and can't tap Tinker Tanner on a pot to save his life at the moment." He gestured up at the stage. "This boy's the last one."

I nodded.

The song ended. There was clapping, a few cheers, but nothing a polite audience wouldn't do. The performer didn't receive pipes.

I made my way up the wooden steps. I walked to center stage, I took my lute. I glanced to the bar. Stanchion was mouthing the words, Make it long. I smiled.

It was only once I felt its familiar wood between my fingers that I realized that I didn't have the slightest clue what I was going to play.

I tuned it for a longer time than usual, making the smallest adjustments to play for time.

The audience's attention was beginning to fail, they were slipping out of my control.

Instinctively, I began playing. At first it was a collection of notes that went well together. Then it took on a form. With a gut wrenching chord, I recognized it as Riding in the Wagon with Ben. The music required no thought or direction. I felt myself fading into the Spinning Leaf. My attention gravitated towards the Eolian. It was large, but not unnecessarily so. There was wood. Its colors ranged from deepest darkest brown to caramel. There was beauty in the way the Eolian was built. It was strong, but the arches and balconies showed it serene and graceful. All the while my fingers played my thoughts, of music, of home, of the Eolian.

The song and I spun to the people, the audience. Spinning Leaf faltered for a moment, and I realized that I was still playing, and the song that I wove was no longer Riding in the Wagon with Ben. Then, I nudged the song and I back into the Spinning Leaf, and to the people in front of me. They were an audience. Eagerness, enjoyment and joy emanated from them. My fingers expressed their essence with a subtlety and boldness of a summer storm. I knew what I was playing. It was The Eolian.

I played. It was long, but not once did a face turn away from the music I spun for them. I do not remember deciding to open my mouth, but when I finally closed near the end of the song, it burned. A slow, single, final chord echoed from my lute.

The audience shifted slightly as I released them from my spell. They roared. I looked out at them. I blinked before the tears left my eyes. I had let go of the audience, the music, the life. It hurt. But to know that I had had them all in my grasp and let go, that I had done it, that hurt even more.

" _Stop." Kvothe stood suddenly. Chronicler looked up, raising an eyebrow. Bast looked nervous, his eyes darting from Kvothe to the fresh ink. Kvothe took a breath as if he were about to say something, then stopped._

" _Do you need something, Reshi?" Bast asked to fill the silence that was beginning to pool around them._

" _My throat's dry," he replied shortly, striding over to the bar. He selected a bottle and brought out three glasses. The innkeeper made to pour wine into the first one. His elbow nudged the last one in line off the bar._

 _To Chronicler the glass fell slowly. It smashed into the ground, breaking into a thousand shattered pieces. Kvothe closed his eyes, and breathed deeply._

 _Bast leaned across the table. "Do you see that? He's smiling," he hissed giddily into Chronicler's ear._

 _Kvothe did seem to be enjoying the sound of tinkling glass, Chronicler admitted. But after a moment, it was as if the sound had never been. The innkeeper looked at Bast. "Toss me the broom, would you Bast?"_

 _Bast crossed to the cupboard and carried a broom and pan back to Kote. "Here."_

" _Thank you," he said as he began to sweep the glass into the pan._

 _Bast returned to where Chronicler was sitting. He began picking at his fingernails, but Chronicler noticed that his hands were white and shaking._

Like I said, there are few words that I hope can describe what it felt like that night, but I hope you understand. I made my way back to the University early in the new day, happy. Whether it was from intoxication, or laughter at Stanchion's jokes or at the sheer number of drink credit the song had earned me, or the song itself, I can only hope it was all of them.


End file.
